


get it right the first time

by IceEckos12



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bands, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Past Child Neglect, Polyamory, background qp timsasha, band aesthetics, band au, gerry is nonbinary and uses he/him pronouns, gerry is their sound technician, i know nothing about starting a band so i handwaved some details, more detailed warnings in the author's notes, sasha tim martin and jon are all in a band, various other tma characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-17 16:33:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28602990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IceEckos12/pseuds/IceEckos12
Summary: Gerry thought he'd left his musical past behind him, until a group of talented musicians come crashing into his life. Suddenly he's a sound technician for an amateur band, and inexorably bound to the trajectory of their future, whether that be spectacular success—or devastating failure.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Gerard Keay/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 26
Kudos: 83





	get it right the first time

**Author's Note:**

> i know i just started another multichapter fic but i cannot TELL YOU HOW EXCITED IVE BEEN FOR THIS ONE. so, im a musician but i know nothing about a) running a band, and b) running a band in england, so please correct me if you see anything wrong! and as always, let me know if ive forgotten to tag anything.
> 
> warnings: recreational drinking, mild self-destructive behavior

Gerry stared into the foamy brown liquid at the bottom of his glass, swilling the foul taste of the bitter stout around in his mouth, trying not to grimace. He didn’t know why he’d ordered it— he’d always hated the taste of beer. Cocktails tasted much better, and would get you twice as drunk in half the amount of time.

Maybe he’d done it on purpose. It was hard to be sure. He was good at that—self sabotage, that is. Though he usually didn’t indulge, there was something perversely satisfying about wallowing in his discontent, about feeding the unhappiness that welled within him, like throwing dry wood on top of a hungry fire.

 _Stop that,_ he thought, forcing himself to finish off the rest of his beer, then glanced up at the bartender. She was young, looked barely old enough to serve alcohol, though she tried to hide it under a layer of judiciously applied makeup. Her dark brown eyes were focused somewhere over his shoulder as she wiped off a glass with an old rag, probably on the small raised stage that’d looked as though it’d been poorly hacked into the wall sometime during the seventies. A band had started playing sometime in the past hour, adding to the simmer of background noise that he was tuning out.

She must’ve felt his eyes on her, because after a couple of seconds she looked down and caught his gaze. If she felt any discomfort at his staring, she didn’t show it, just smiled charmingly and nodded toward his empty glass. “Want another?”

Gerry thought about that for a moment. Considered the fact that rent was due this weekend, and that he barely had enough in his bank account to cover it. Remembered that his request for extra shifts next week had been granted, which was good because more money, which was _bad_ because more time in that awful fucking pit of a workplace.

“...yes,” he decided, pushing his empty glass in her direction. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d survived on instant noodles for a week or two. Just until he got his next paycheck.

She took the glass from him and set it aside, before pulling out a clean one and filling it up. “Want to run a tab?”

“Do I look like I’m made of money?” he snapped back, then immediately tented his hands over his eyes and let out a slow, calming breath. “I’m—no, sorry, that was rude. I just—”

“It’s fine,” the girl said calmly, setting the full glass brimming with thick, creamy foam on the counter in front of him. “I’ve heard worse.”

 _Of course she has,_ Gerry thought bitterly, drawing the glass closer to him, now feeling like an ass as _well_ as pathetic. _She works at a bar. She’s probably had all sorts of run-ins with people at their worst._ He just hated to be the sort of person who added to the unpleasantness; Mary had been the sort of person who’d been rude on purpose, and...

He took a long, bracing pull of the stout, trying to ignore the faint scent of cigarettes that was probably just his imagination, probably just memories lingering too close to the surface.

He shouldn’t have come; he knew that he was projecting his bad mood like a miasma, touching all who came near him with its poison. But sitting in his lonely flat with just his thoughts for company had been unbearable too, so he’d tossed on his favorite leather jacket and headed to the nearest bar, hoping for a distraction, knowing it wouldn’t work. And it hadn’t, of course.

He needed to go home, get some sleep. Extract himself from the dark corner of his mind he’d wandered into.

He opened his mouth to ask for the check, when a loud wail echoed through the air, cutting through the low murmur of background noise. He turned around, frowning, searching for its source—

There was a man standing at the front of the stage, his black hair falling in loose, thick waves over his shoulders, set with silver streaks that reflected the stage lights like veins of polished metal. There was tension in every sharp line of his body as he leaned forward, his guitar angled to one side so he could get as close to the mic as possible, and the crowd in front of him answered with a drunken, enthusiastic cheer. 

The note trailed off, and he opened two dark, hooded eyes, his gaze made all the more intense by the ring of smudged black eyeliner, by the way his mouth was still half-curled in a toothy snarl. Gerry knew that it wasn’t possible, he could’ve sworn the man was staring right at him, and it felt like all the air had just been kicked right out of his chest.

Then he took a swift, purposeful step to the side, and the drummer took over.

He started off the solo small, quiet, using the quiet _tap_ of the high hat to keep time, his body wound tight like a spring about to uncoil. The bassist, a young woman with long hair and a bomber jacket stitched through with dizzying whorls of color, stepped close to the drumset. She matched his volume, settling into the tempo beside him, as natural as falling into step. The drummer hardly noticed; his eyes were thin, concentrated slits, and the beat was rock solid, even when he went to wipe the sheen of sweat from his forehead.

His sticks found one of toms, adding a constant, percussive _thump_ to each sharp crack of the high-hat. The solo built with the thrum of the bass drum, the high bark of the snare, the burst of the crash symbol, expanding and rising over the repetitive drone of the bassline. His body reacted with it, becoming less and less contained; his head nodded up and down, his neon-tipped strawberry blond curls quivering with each bob.

The pianist leaned over his instrument, and let out a sharp, startling _whoop_ of appreciation, which the crowd echoed. He was the very epitome of tall, dark, and handsome; his undercut was gelled into tall spikes, and his fishnets were _covered_ in a layer of shimmering glitter.

The drummer didn’t even seem to notice the interruption, halfway out of his seat he was so intent.

 _Huh,_ Gerry thought, turning all the way around on his bar stool and hooking his elbows over the edge of the counter.

Almost as soon as it’d started the solo ended, and the piano took over with a flourish, the drum sliding neatly into the background. The guitarist began to vamp a little—most wouldn’t notice, but he didn’t look entirely comfortable on the instrument—before jumping back into the chorus. Gerry couldn’t make out the words from here, but he could feel the anger in them, the frustration and unique, youthful helplessness.

They were….unpolished. The pianist and bassist were doing their best to make up for the fact that the guitarist was probably very new on his instrument, and the harmonies didn’t quite mesh up with the melody line. But there was something about them, an intensity that made the hair on Gerry’s arm stand on end.

As they wrapped up the song, Gerry looked over his shoulder and addressed the bartender. “Who’re they?”

“New group,” she responded absently. “The, uh, the Archives? I think they called themselves?”

Gerry frowned. “Kind of a lame name.” What he meant was, _kind of a lame name for such an interesting group._

“Yeah, well.” She shrugged, a half-smile playing at the corner of her mouth. “They’re quite good, aren’t they?”

Gerry hummed an agreement, blindly reaching over for his beer and taking a long, thoughtful sip.

He’d meant to leave after finishing his second drink, but he kept thinking, _I’ll just stay a little longer._ The next thing he knew, the lights were coming on, and it was well after one in the morning. 

The pianist shouted, “Thanks for coming tonight, everyone!”

The crowd let out a few appreciative yells, which only got louder when the drummer pounded encouragingly on the bass drum and hit a few cracking notes on the snare.

Gerry glanced to the lead singer. Most vocalists were the type to draw attention, to soak it up the spotlight like a sponge. This one, while absolutely exuding drama while singing, seemed to be a bit more standoffish personality-wise. He was hovering next to the bassist, and she’d looped her arm in his and was whispering into his ear.

“My name is Tim, the hot one,” Tim said, his grin widening when someone wolf-whistled. The drummer rolled his eyes and made a _bdum-tss_ noise on the drumset. “The smartass on drums is Martin. Sasha is on bass, and our incredible singer is Jon!”

Jon and Sasha both waved as their names were called, though the latter was significantly more enthusiastic than the former.

“If you liked what you heard, give us a like on YouTube or Twitter. That’s also where we’ll be announcing where and when our next concert is going to be.”

 _“I love you!”_ Someone called.

Without missing a beat, Tim pointed at the person and shouted, _“I love you too!_ Anyway, thanks again for coming out. We are the Archives, and we’ll hopefully see you next time!”

…

Gerry threw his leather trenchcoat onto the bed, his exhausted body following it a second later. He rolled onto his back and threw an arm over his face, pressing down until stars burst across his vision.

He could still see the piercing gaze of the lead singer, the coiled intensity of the drummer as he built his solo, bit by bit, from the ground up. Beer and adrenaline was a thick, sour taste in his mouth, and every beat of his heart felt like the heady pounding of the bass drum.

He lifted his arm and stretched it out in front of him, blinking the blurriness away. The eyes he’d tattooed onto his knuckles stared back, watchful and judging.

His hand did not shake. When he tried to curl his fingers, they responded easily, smoothly. There was nowhere near enough air in the room as he flexed them open and close, open and close, over and over again.

 _Silly,_ he thought harshly, breaking himself out of his trance. _Breathe in, breathe out. Come on, Delano. It doesn’t matter._

And then he rolled over and shut his eyes. But no matter how much he willed it, he knew he wouldn’t be able to get to sleep tonight.

* * *

Gerry went to their next concert completely by accident. He meandered into the pub in the middle of their second song, half dead on his feet because he’d just worked a ten-hour shift, and collapsed onto the nearest barstool. He hadn't meant to stay that long, but he just couldn't work up the energy to get up and leave.

That night he learned that Martin, the strawberry-blonde drummer, was responsible for the song lyrics, while Sasha (the bassist) and Jon (the lead singer and somewhat dubious guitar player) arranged the music. Tim, the handsome and wickedly skilled pianist, appeared to be the de facto leader and spokesperson.

The Archives seemed to be using the relaxed environment and (alcoholically induced) good humor of the crowd to try out some new sounds. Both Tim and Sasha did some harmonizing, while the former tried out some of the different settings on the synth. During one set, Martin even withdrew an old pair of brushes, and they performed a slower, almost jazzy piece that the crowd applauded earnestly, but with a touch of polite confusion.

He fell into bed that night with the taste of pina colada on his tongue and the smoky flash of lights in his mind’s eye.

The third concert was an accident as well, of course. The venue had been a little out of his way, but he’d been in the area, checking out the local antique shop. He’d just…decided that he needed a drink after several hours of wading his way through a few century’s worth of old books.

It was only when he was sitting in front of the computer, buying a ticket for the fourth concert, that Gerry finally decided to stop lying to himself. He was slightly obsessed with this very talented group of people and their captivating music. It was just—their love of their craft, their desire to be better, to improve and adapt and overcome _,_ was infectious. 

(It’d been….a very long time since he’d felt that way. Jealousy and secondhand exhilaration was a bitter, heady combination on the tongue.)

The venue was a bit nicer than the places they usually played in, Gerry mused as he wandered over to the stage, drink in hand. It was a bittersweet thought. He was proud that their talent was being recognized—but on the other hand, it was hard enough to make ends meet without him buying concert tickets every week, which would surely only get more expensive.

“Hey there.”

Gerry took a surprised step backward, his drink sloshing over the rim of his cup. He hadn’t even noticed the person sitting on the edge of the stage not two feet away.

But—wait, he recognized those fishnets. That was _Tim Stoker,_ the pianist of the Archives—well, the Ceaseless Watcher. They’d officially changed their band name after the last concert for some reason, and Gerry had to admit that he approved.

Gerry hesitated a moment, before offering a wary, “Hello.”

The cheeky grin widened. “Didn’t see you last time. You had me worried!”

Gerry raised an eyebrow. It was true, he _hadn’t_ been able to make it to the last concert on account of his job. But the fact that Tim had noticed…

Tim must have noticed the odd look on Gerry’s face, because his mouth did a small, apologetic twist. “Sorry, that sounded...weird. It’s just—you’re a distinctive bloke, you know? And we don’t have a lot of repeat appearances.”

“Not a bloke,” Gerry responded reflexively, then tensed.

Tim grinned easily. “Not a bloke, then. Still distinctive, though.”

Gerry relaxed, and conceded the point with a nod. “I was busy. By the way, I noticed that you changed your name?”

Tim let out a wry laugh. “Yeah! We got a new manager, actually. Told us, and I quote, ‘Your name’s a bit shit’. He’s very concerned with our image, and all that.”

Gerry snorted. “The music business is _all_ about image.” Although they probably would’ve been okay without the name change, as they somehow managed to accumulate four of the most attractive people he’s ever seen. It’s like they were all grown out of a test tube, or something.

“You’ve got that right. Are you a musician?”

Gerry paused. Flexed the fingers of his left hand, feeling the smooth slide of muscle and tendon and bone. That was—a difficult question. “Kind of. I used to know some people who were in the business? You pick stuff up.”

“I know the feeling. Danny—my brother, that is—was never interested in learning the piano or any other instrument, but he _can_ recognize composers and famous pieces." Then he hesitated, and favored Gerry with a strange, searching look. "Do you know how to use a soundboard?”

Gerry frowned at the non sequitur. That was...strangely specific. “I mean...yes? But why—”

Tim clapped a friendly hand on Gerry’s shoulder, his grin widening to scheme-worthy levels. “Great! Come find me after the concert. There’s some people that I want you to meet.”

And then he was gone in a whirl of fishnets and the faint smell of sweat. Gerry stared after the retreating pianist, feeling as though he’d just gotten run over by a particularly friendly tornado.

Gerry debated whether or not he should take Tim up on his offer for almost the entire concert, jostled the whole time by the excited crowd. He...had a feeling that he knew who Tim was going to introduce him to and why—he hadn’t been all that subtle, after all. The question was whether or not he wanted to get involved with musicians.

_(Again.)_

He saw Jon’s dark eyes, gleaming in the bright stage lights over the curve of the microphone. Droplets of sweat flew from Martin’s hair, making his face shine. Sasha’s dextrous fingers curved over the bass frets, so smooth they were almost liquid. There was a mask of concentration on Tim’s face, but he was grinning too, like there was nowhere else he’d rather be.

Gerry sighed, and called for the bartender to top off his glass. There was no need to be sober until after they finished tearing everything down, which would be in a couple of hours. He had time.

Two hours later, Tim was guiding him through the last dregs of the crowd, behind the curtain and into the room reserved for the band members. Gerry’s stomach fluttered with nerves, and he blinked repeatedly to try and focus through the haze of lingering tipsiness.

“Hey guys,” Tim called cheerfully, entering ahead of him. “This is the person I was talking about.”

Gerry paused in the doorway for a moment, giving the room a quick once over. There were four other people in the room besides he and Tim: Martin, who was nervously twirling a drumstick in one hand, Jon, who was combing his hair out and glowering at the mirror, and Sasha, who was leaning against one of the tables with easy grace. The final person was a tall, bespectacled man with salt and pepper hair, who must’ve been their new manager.

“Oh, it’s you!” Sasha pushed away from the table and gave Gerry a wondering smile. Martin promptly dropped his stick and turned bright red. “Tim, you didn’t tell us that it was the goth!”

“‘ _The_ goth’?” Gerry asked, raising his eyebrow at Tim.

“I _told_ you that you were distinctive,” Tim confided, then gestured to the rest of the band. “I’m sure you know Jon, Sasha, and Martin. That over there is Elias Bouchard, our new manager.” Gerry twitched at the familiar name, but Tim barrelled on, not seeming to notice. “Anyway, Mr. goth says that he knows his way around a sound board.”

Before Gerry could respond, Jon turned away from the mirror, still combing his fingers through his hair, his face a twist of irritation and derision. “Are we hiring random people off of the street, now? Why don’t you go out and ask the bartender if he wants to play guitar?”

Gerry was unable to suppress his snort. When they all gave him a startled look—including Jon—he shrugged self-consciously. “I mean—he’s got a point. You know my name isn’t _actually_ ‘the goth’?”

Tim gave him an expectant look. “What’s your name, then?”

“Well—Ger...Gerry Delano.” He glanced over, but there was no recognition in Elias’ eyes.

“There you go, then.”

“Nice to meet you, Gerry,” Sasha said dryly. “Did Tim tell you _why_ he called you back here?”

Gerry shrugged again, still carefully observing their manager out of the corner of his eye. The man hadn’t spoken up once, seemingly content to let things play out, and that careful silence was making him...nervous. “Not _really,_ but it wasn’t that hard to figure out. You guys want someone to do balances for you, right? Work the sound board?”

Sasha nodded. “Got it in one.”

“You’re kind of a small band to be looking for a sound engineer,” Gerry ventured. They’d only just gotten a manager, after all.

The four band members shared an uncomfortable look.

“We’re kind of awful to balance,” Tim admitted, scratching the back of his neck. “You’ve probably noticed, but they always turn Jon’s microphone way too high, and Martin’s way too low, no matter what we tell them. It takes _way_ too long for them to balance us properly.”

“I offered to finance a sound engineer,” Elias interjected smoothly. “I have high hopes for this group. I think it’d be worthwhile to have someone working with us from the beginning.”

Gerry gave him a doubtful look. Admittedly it’d been a few years since he’d last been in a studio, but he was _pretty_ sure that wasn’t how it worked. He kept his mouth shut, though; he was hoping that his dyed hair, age, and tattoos would ensure that he wasn’t recognized. “I see.”

“Although I must concur with Jonathon,” Elias added, voice tinged with disappointment. “Timothy, did you seriously just find a random person in the crowd? I have professional contacts we can use.”

“That’s how we found Martin,” Tim pointed out, leaning against one wall. For whatever reason, both Jon and Martin flushed and focused on some arbitrary point in the room, as though searching for the cosmic secrets of the universe. “Besides, I knew he was a musician. You can just tell these things.”

“We’re getting _way_ ahead of ourselves,” Jon interrupted, getting to his feet with a flick of long, glittery black and silver hair. “We don’t even know if he wants to join.”

“‘He’s’ standing right here, you know,” Gerry said mildly, and once more had the attention of everyone in the room. “You could ask him. Just a thought.”

There was a considering pause.

“That’s a good point,” Tim said. “Gerry, how do _you_ feel about joining the Ceaseless Watcher as our sound engineer? We’d obviously have to give you a trial period, but we’d, you know, pay you for your time.”

Gerry opened his mouth, then shut it again when he realized that he...didn’t actually know what he wanted to do. Even though he’d been the one to suggest that they ask him, he hadn’t thought that far ahead. “Uh….I have a job. If there’s a concert coming up soon that coincides with a shift I might not be able to get that time off.”

“That’s fine.” Sasha shrugged. “Most small venues have their own sound engineer. We can just use them until you’re next available.”

Gerry looked from Sasha, to Tim (who smiled winningly), to Martin (who continued to nervously twirl his drumstick), to Jon (who stared back, grim and expressionless), and finally to Elias. The older man was almost half a foot shorter than Gerry, but still somehow managed to look down his nose at him.

Christ, this was a terrible idea. He should be running away from this disaster in the making, not throwing himself onto the flames.

Except—except.

It wasn’t like he was playing a musical instrument, or anything. He was basically being paid to come and listen to one of the most fascinating bands he’d ever heard. Plus, it’d been so long since his last foray into the musical world; as much as his mind tried to tell him otherwise, not all musicians were like...like Mary. Maybe this time, it would be different.

He missed music more than he knew how to put into words.

“Sure.” His voice was slow, measured, like he was tasting a new food but still wasn’t sure about the flavor. “Why the hell not?”


End file.
